


dress in black and read camus

by bittereternity



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Gen, Implied Cannibalism, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, also squint for will/bev, because i can't help myself, but hannibal is hannibal, not sure if this is crack, slight introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:03:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittereternity/pseuds/bittereternity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Will is the owner of a second-hand bookstore. One day, Hannibal Lecter walks in, looking for a rare cookbook.</p><p>[spoiler alert: the books are not people. everything else is fair game]</p>
            </blockquote>





	dress in black and read camus

**Author's Note:**

> the title is taken from: I don't want to get over you - The Magnetic Fields

*

each man’s hell is in a different place:

mine is just up and behind my ruined face

Charles Bukowski

*

Will shoves his coffee mug under his arm and juggles his laptop on his knee as he finally turns the key the right way and the door clicks open.

“Keep _quiet,_ ” he turns back slightly, snaps at his troop of dogs behind him. They all momentarily fall silent, looking at him with a wide-eyed curiosity and there are various degrees of wariness ever present in their eyes. Will grimaces and slams the door open.

“After you,” he declares dramatically with a grand gesture, and ushers everyone in, led by Coco the Doberman, whom he’d found sniffing around a crime scene a lifetime ago, and who had subsequently established himself as the leader of the pack. Will doesn’t try to argue; Coco has the best orientation and liaison skills of all of them, anyway.

He finally enters the shop, bringing up the rear of his team as any dedicated Commander would, and closes the door behind him. The bookshop is just the right size, with the right amount of muskiness that Will has come to grow fond of. He’s especially partial to the ceiling-high bookshelves and the woodwork that provide a nice contrast to the yellowing, thumb-tacked pages that most of his books seem to be composed out of.

It’s a nice store, he thinks vaguely, as he watches his troop disperse throughout the store, sniffing out the ladders and giving cautionary licks to several clean corners of the floor. He closes his eyes briefly, much like he does every morning, and takes in the smell of print, that distinct smell that only arises from the amalgamation of a freshly minted book that has been in the distinguished company of words across pages far more experienced, far more revered. He likes the homeliness the books exude, like they’re a defensive, impenetrable shield around him, enticing him with new and varied worlds, holding in them a promise to take him to a lifetime’s worth of destinations and imaginations and fantasies. It feels like the books drape a perpetual blanket around him, drawing him in with their warmth and the promise of freshly baked bread and freshly-brewed pots of tea. Most people who come in are normally either people who stop by his shop on their way back from the coffee shop across the street or college students looking for a cheap or an older edition of a book for credit. Sometimes, sometimes though, there are regulars or even new customers who walk in and treat the books with a certain degree of respect, look at the printed words like they’re more than just permutations of a language on a piece of paper and he feels like this has been the right choice after all, doing this day in and day out.

\--- and yet, there are days when thoughts of his time in the FBI rise unbidden, when he sits back behind the cash counter and he can practically visualize himself still standing on the teaching platform at Quantico, looking at the rapt faces in front of him and imparting something new, something _valuable:_ knowledge. Sometimes, on days when business is slow, he thinks back to the thrill of walking into a crime scene and uncovering the history of the dead through a trail of clues, walking into a dangerous situation with his gun drawn and being able to _save_ someone, save a life. Sometimes, it’s hard not to think about what could have happened if he hadn’t quit; it’s hard not to feel like there is something more, _should_ be something more than the rustle of pages under his fingers and the trail of words through his lips.

The trouble, Will thinks, of having a multitude of universes and dimensions to absorb himself in is that sometimes, he forgets that none of them are his own.

*

Jack comes in precisely at nine every day, so Will raises an eyebrow when he hears his door chime and open fifteen minutes early instead. Jack all but stomps in, clenching a Styrofoam mug and bringing along with him a particularly cruel gust of wind.

“Rough day?” Will asks mildly.

Jack doesn’t respond, seemingly content with standing there and sipping his coffee and baring his teeth slightly at him. How he manages to look like he’s simultaneously smiling and saying _fuck you_ with his gestures, Will can’t tell. Jack looks haggard, exhausted; Will notices even without any significant outward tells but these are things he can read far better than anyone, can read every ounce of Jack’s tension in the stance of his shoulders, the color of his tie and the bitterness emanating from his coffee.

“It’s the Chesapeake Ripper,” Jack tells him finally, and Will very carefully doesn’t show any signs of being startled. He’s heard of the Chesapeake Ripper, of course, heard far too much about him in the not-so subtle looks Jack had sent in his direction when his protégé was killed.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs in the direction of the till, watches Winston settle down for a nap on the rug near the door out of the corner of his eye.

He hears Jack sigh. “I’m getting calls from Miriam Lass,” he finally breathes out.

Will looks up at him with a frown, still startled at the fact that he has never been able to stop himself from reading the sadness behind the vengeful glint in Jack’s eyes.

“She’s _dead_ and I’m fucking getting calls from her,” Jack bursts out, allows Will to see him lose the slightest amount of control, allows himself to be the slightest bit vulnerable in front of him in a way Will knows no one else can see.

Will bites his lip against the _you’re having problems with Phyllis again, aren’t you_ ready on his tongue, hates himself for being able to read it too easily in the crease of Jack’s tie.

“Gideon can’t be making those calls,” Jack speaks again without waiting for a reply on his side.

\--- and Will had known that too, had known it before anyone else from the way Jack had talked about Gideon being the Ripper, had known it because something about had just _felt_ different, felt incomplete and had left behind the taste of dissatisfaction in his mouth,

He bites his lip again and looks away, perfectly aware that he has no right to say any of these things out loud, that whatever thoughts he might have on the matter should have ended the day he turned in his gun and his badge and walked out of the FBI.

He looks up from his own thoughts to see Jack looking at him intently, with an expression that makes him feel like he’s somehow been caught, exposed.

“Jack.” He begins, warningly, but there’s a reason that Jack’s the head of the BAU.

He lets out a short, harsh laugh that doesn’t fail to make Will flinch even after all these years. “You knew, didn’t you?” he wonders out loud, but it isn’t –- never had been -- a question.

Will looks down, tries to regroup and give an answer that isn’t a blatant _of course I did, what did you expect_ when the doorbell chimes again and he looks up to see an immaculately dressed man walk in through the door in measured, equal strides, looking like he’s belonged there forever.

Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else before clamping it abruptly shut in the presence of another person.

“We’ll talk about this later,” he mutters in a harsh tone, leaves no room for Will to argue before storming out.

*

The main reason why Will loathes telling anyone about his time in law enforcement is the look people would get towards the end; a lethal combination of pity and forced understanding that periodically makes his skin crawl.

It hadn’t been a particular case, or a specific trigger, or a violent killer, although they had all been gruesome in their own aspects. It hadn’t even been his ability to get inside the mind of the killer or look at the horror someone decided to inflict on another person from sheer imagination.

The first time he’d genuinely thought of quitting his job, quitting _that_ has been on a crime scene where he had _understood_ the motivations behind the killers’ actions, understood the logic behind his killing and most terrifyingly of all, he had thought: _I would do the same._

It had threatened to destroy him in the end: his esoteric knowledge of others, his ability to point out the profession of a person from his fingers or the state of someone’s mind from the colors they’re wearing. It had damned him in the end; the weight of the knowledge that he was good, _so_ good at his job.

It had been simple, the realization that he couldn’t continue on the same path anymore. Another day, another victim, another crime scene and he had found himself instinctively closing his eyes against the violence. It had been the closest he had come to begging: _please don’t make me look._

He had known all along that it had been the right decision, the decision to walk into Jack’s office and return his badge and his gun along with a resignation later. Jack’s stance had been defensive, his posture had conveyed anger, but there had been something akin to envy in his eyes, something wary and deep and grudging and respectful that hadn’t gone unnoticed: _at least you know when to get out._

Sometimes, in calmer moments when the dogs are asleep and the sky is cloudy and business is slow, he thinks he might write a book someday. There are balls of scrunched-up paper in his trash that no one bothers to notice, lines written and rewritten and then finally deleted because he had never quite been able to figure out how to move ahead, how to tell a story in a way that doesn’t come out as _I am a complete freak lost inside my own head._

The problem is, and he will never admit this to anyone,  that all his stories begin the same way: My name is Will Graham.

And he crumples up the paper and throws it away because he’s never been a fan of books that reveal everything in the first sentence, anyway.

*

“What can I do for you?” he asks, looking at the man in front of him; perfectly matching outfit and perfectly polished shoes that haven’t moved even when Jack had stormed out.

“I’m sorry,” he clears his throat. “This shop was recommended to me by Dr. Bloom. Alana?”

Will nods.

“I’m Dr. Hannibal Lecter,” the man introduces himself, eyes flicking all over Will to appraise him even as he remains perfectly polite without extending a hand.

“You’re Alana’s mentor,” Will says, purely to fulfill the need to say something. “What can I do for you?”

Hannibal merely looks at Will, and it is disconcerting and beautiful at the same time because he can’t quite figure out what the next step of this conversation is going to be, how the rest of the story will be panned out on this day. Will takes a deep breath and tries not to look too eager; it has been, in the past, a relief to not discern, discover every movement around him for a living and yet, and yet.

“I’m looking for a cookbook,” Hannibal says. Will blinks, because that isn’t quite what he expected, he would have certainly put his money on the collected works of Chaucer.

“I’m hosting a dinner, actually,” Hannibal elaborates, a tone of apology seeping into his voice. “The theme of the dinner is Indian, and I’m afraid my efforts to innovate with new combinations of herbs and spices have not been as fruitful as I would like. Dr. Bloom very kindly suggested that I may need to seek out professional help, and that you keep an impressive array of cookbooks.”

He spreads his hands in a gesture of _here I am_ which would look positively mundane on anyone else, but only serves to increase his ambiguity in Will’s eyes.

Will escorts him to the back of the store, weaving their way through bookshelves that aren’t particularly arranged according to any system, if only because he feels some kind of sadistic pleasure in placing Joyce next to Samuel Beckett on his racks.

“Here,” he points out, waves a hand generally towards the direction of the cookbooks. Hannibal looks like he’s essentially a part of the furniture, blending into the atmosphere of his shop in a way that’s disconcerting and highly provoking at the same time. All of Hannibal’s concentration is solely on the bookshelves, eyes scanning titles and words with a speed that can only match his own.

He turns around, ready to go back and see what Coco and the troops are up to, when Hannibal speaks out.

“Do you like Indian food, Will?” his voice is soft and reminds Will of the purring of a cat in pure ecstacy.

“I never told you my name,” he feels it necessary to point out.

Hannibal smiles; at least, Will thinks that’s what the narrowing of his eyes mean. “You come up in conversations,” is what he chooses to reply.

Will almost smiles. “I would say I’m a fan of Indian cuisine, yes,” he replies.

Hannibal looks at him over the top of the book he has laid open in his arms. “Do you have a favorite ingredient?”

Will pretends to take a moment to think although he has the answer ready. “Asafetida,” he replies.

There’s nothing stopping just the slightest amount of smirk pushing its way out his mouth when Hannibal’s eyebrow lifts an inch. “Interesting,” he observes. Something shifts between them imperceptibly, and Will instinctively straightens his shoulders before reminding himself that he isn’t going on a raid anytime soon.

“Did you know that originally the word is coined from two words that mean: stinking resin?” Hannibal continues.

Will shakes his head and holds on to the shelf next to him. “In some languages,” he finally ventures, “it means _to kill_.”

Hannibal turns to look at him fully in a way that’s not pity, no, but it’s almost there. He resists the urge to blush at being caught unawares in a game he hadn’t really been playing.

“It’s interesting, your choice,” Hannibal says and he has to strain himself to hear every single word. Hannibal has a way about his words, about his manner of speech that’s simultaneously entrancing and charming. He wonders if that’s the voice he uses to deliver bad news, if people thank him for it simply because of the way he says it.

“You’re attracted to things that other people reject, think less of.” Hannibal’s gaze never leaves from his face. “You defend things purely because others don’t.” He looks around at Will’s troop. “Is that why you collect these canines, Will?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Will follows his gaze, sees Coco trying to paw at the _Rent_ poster on the wall. “Why would you think that?” he finally asks, voice trembling.

Hannibal tilts his head, looks at him in a way that’s disappointed; upset that Will hasn’t managed to figure it out yet.

This part of the story is immaterial. Will already has.

“I’m a psychiatrist,” Hannibal tells him, something akin to the undercurrents of a smile in his voice. He holds out his hand for Will to shake.

Will extends his own in return. “You were a surgeon first,” he murmurs as he grasps Hannibal’s hands with his own.

It’s not a victory, not quite, but it feels like something close when Hannibal silently passes the book to him and their fingers touch under the cover.

“I’ll take it,” Hannibal says.

*

“Jack wants me to come back,” he tells Beverly over lunch at a little café which is conveniently midway between the BAU and his store.

Beverly raises an eyebrow and momentarily stops chewing on her tuna sandwich. “He told you that?”

He shakes his head and fumbles with the side of a cookie that she had forced him to buy. _You need more calories in your life, Graham,_ she had said.

“Not in words,” he taps his fingers on the table. “But he was talking about Gideon and he kept giving me a _look_.”

Beverly looks at him skeptically. “A look?”

Will shrugs. “It’s a feeling. I’ve been pretty lucky with those so far, you know.”

Beverly looks like she wants to stick her tongue out at him. “What about you?” she asks. “Do you want to come back?”

Will considers different versions of _yes, no, not especially but_ on his tongue before: “How can I live with myself I don’t help catch the Ripper?”

She leans forward to touch his hand with hers. “You don’t owe him anything,” she tells him instead.

He looks away and hears her sigh. “You would tell us right?” she insists. “If you knew anything?”

He tries to meet her eyes and hide the affection in them at the same time. “I would tell you,” he finally tells her. It’s not quite a promise, but he owes her this, least of all.

She fits, he thinks, looking at her removing the bits of tomato from her sandwich before taking a bite. She is like the spaces between the long and convoluted words, the separation between lines; she fits between his crevices like the perfect edges of a jigsaw puzzle, she’s the reason the letters jumbled on every page diverge in different directions and make sense, look beautiful, feel like a work of art.

It would be so easy to love her, he thinks. All he would have to do is _look_ and she would be there on the other side.

Instead, he takes a bite of his cookie, follows the path of the sunlight dancing on her hair, and hopes that he won’t end up ruining her with his sheer presence.

*

Will observes Hannibal out of the corner of his eye the following day as he helps an old lady – another regular of his who’s nice enough to bring him tea sometimes and pet his dogs – find a not-so battered copy of _Lady Chatterley’s Lover._

He moves to the back once the customers leave and finds Hannibal standing by the window, perusing a copy of _Larousse Gastronomique._ There’s something in his stance that makes him incongruous in this particular setting, like he’s spent a lifetime avoiding sunlight on his face.

“My mother had one of those,” he remarks as he approaches closer.

Hannibal looks up with the barest trace of a smile on his face, looks down to note the page number before softly closing the book shut.

The thing is, Hannibal treats books like they should be treated; not just as a bunch of papers glued together and given a name, but as a trajectory towards something more mysterious. There’s reverence in his gaze as he picks up  any book, and his fingers trail over the uniformity of the lines like he owes them dignity and respect just for their existence. It terrifies Will, the thought that someone else out there _understands_ , that someone is capable of dissecting and laying him bare only by glancing through his personal collection.

Hannibal looks at every book in Will’s hand like it’s inadvertently giving away a piece of himself before fixing Will with a look that makes him feel out of control in his own life. He’s that moment in any dream between the awareness of being asleep and the sensation of falling out of a REM cycle.

“I didn’t know you were an all-rounder,” Will continues, gesturing vaguely at the book of French cuisine.

Hannibal places a hand in his pocket delicately, _of course._ “I’m a fan of experimentation,” he replies, “and I host dinners quite often.”

Will laughs, an effortless laugh that Hannibal seems to be great in eliciting out of him. “You experiment on your guests?” he asks. “That seems….rude.”

Hannibal traces a line on his rug with his own shoe. “I experiment with them,” he gently corrects.

Will frowns. “It’s an experience for all of us,” Hannibal elaborates. “There’s nothing better than journeying through food when you have the company of others.”

He considers this, tries very hard to get rid of the suddenly conjured image of a group of people spitting out food in a synchronized fashion. He looks up to see Hannibal look at him, an intense look of concentration on his face. “I would love to have you for dinner sometime,” he says, like he’s tasting the words for the first time.

Will mulls it over. Something about the proposition falls right outside his comfort zone, tracing its lines without barging its way over. He likes his food much like he likes the warmth of the books around him; open and revealed in all its aspects and not requiring the usage of a fork.

Nevertheless, he doesn’t refuse outright. “Maybe someday,” he settles on a compromise.

*

“Did you get the chance to meet Hannibal?” Alana asks rather unceremoniously in the evening, dumping her things by the door and waiting for Will to lock up.

Will nods, attention fixed on the inventory list opened on his laptop.

“I thought you might hit it off,” she informs him rather cheerily. He has the grace to look at least mildly affronted.

“I have _friends,_ ” he insists and then: “He was a customer, we didn’t hit it off, as you say.”

She doesn’t deny it. “You need to meet people outside the FBI, Will,” she tells him gently. There’s something in her voice that makes him stop typing and look up at her.

“It’s been three years,” she tells him like there’s a chance he might forget it at all.

He ignores the slight pressure behind his temple, an ache he’s come to associate with trying to be naturally defensive. “I’m done,” is all he offers in reply. “Let me lock up and we can get out of here.”

He feels Alana watch his every movement for a while, before: “You should date more,” Alana announces, like she’s just figured out the key to his happiness.

Will turns back and cocks his head. “Do _you_ date?”

She shrugs. “It’s different for me. I actually have a—,” she catches herself at the last second and trails off.

He raises an eyebrow as he ushers both her and the troops out before locking the door. “A job, you mean?” he asks sardonically. “Classy.”

She swats him lightly on the shoulder as they walk side by side, Coco leading the chain of command in front of them. “I talked to Dr. Chilton today,” she says out of nowhere, a note of urgency in her voice that hadn’t been there before. “He inadvertently convinced Gideon that he was the Ripper.”

Will stays silent.  _Psychic driving,_ he doesn't say, because she has been the authority on this long before he started playing the game

“He was _never_ the Chesapeake Ripper,” Alana repeats again, dotting the lines. Will feels a sudden urge to apologize, to say something meaningful even when he knows that that’s the last thing she’s looking for.

“Oh, Alana,” he murmurs, and drapes an arm over her waist to pull her close as a comprise.

They walk to his car in relative comfort before he speaks up again. “Remember that time we kissed?” he asks before he can help himself, briefly wondering why he’s even bringing it up.

He feels her shaking with silent laughter. “Do you think we would’ve made it work?” she asks him in reply.

He considers different replies before eventually settling on the truth. “I think we were too busy trying to figure out how many ways a killer can completely butcher their victims.”

She leans into him a little. “I only counted till seventeen.”

He leans down and kisses her on the forehead and lets her lean back on his shoulder. “I could’ve done it in eight,” he admits.

*

“How was the dinner?” he asks Hannibal the next time he’s in store. Today, he’s decided to move on from cookbooks to Victorian literature.

Hannibal purses his lips. “Three of them were vegetarian,” he finally offers. “I had no way of knowing beforehand.”

Will frowns. “Was that a problem?” he wants to know.

Hannibal’s shoulders dance a little, it may have been a shrug on other, less refined people. “I like knowing things in advance, Will,” he continues, a little sternness infused in his tone. “It’s rude not to inform your host of your eating habits before coming over for dinner.”

Will tries not to smile too hard at that. “That’s only true under the assumption that everyone actually _has_ eating habits,” he points out.

Hannibal looks genuinely surprised for the first time since Will’s met him. “Everyone has eating habits,” he says like anything else is unthinkable, although it comes out as a question in the end.

He genuinely smiles at that. It’s endearing, he thinks, that even Hannibal can be ruffled just the littlest bit by something this mundane. “I eat a lot of cereal for dinner,” he shares, taking just a little pleasure in watching Hannibal’s lip curl up in disdain.

“You should really let me make dinner for you,” he repeats.

Will coughs into his hand. “Yeah, no, I’ve been preoccupied with other things lately,” he spreads his hand around vaguely.

Hannibal touches his chin delicately. “I heard about the Ripper,” his voice washes over Will like water on wax-coated surface.

“You did?” There’s no way for him to keep the genuine surprise out of his voice.

Hannibal leans forward in one clean motion and touches his arm, curls his fingers around his wrist and lets the warmth of his hand permeate into Will’s arm. Will lets himself sink into the warmth for the moment, tries to figure out the enigma surrounding Hannibal; the illusory calm  that often gives way to the inkling of something dangerous, like he’s trying to tell Will something that he hasn’t been able to understand yet.

“I’m certain that you’ll do everything to find him,” Hannibal assures him. 

He stays silent around the  _but I don't do that anymore_ hovering on his lips.

*

He’s putting the last of the books back on the shelves when the phone rings. Today, the pleasure he derives is from placing Shakespeare next to Walt Whitman, purely for the joy of imagining the road any conversation they have might take.

“You were right,” Jack begins without preamble. Will doesn’t have to ask him what this is all about. _I didn’t tell you anything_ , he almost wants to say.

“Gideon escaped,” Jack’s voice is somber with a touch of desperation.

Will’s hand stills over the phone. “I didn’t expect that,” he admits.

Jack’s sigh is heavy and brooding. “Killed the guards on his way out, too.”

Will rubs his eyes with his spare hand. “Jack, I don’t…” he begins but he’s cut off just as he begins.

“Just listen, Will, yeah?” Jack cuts him off with a tone that starts out as an order and ends with a plea for a cause he’s already lost.

Will sighs, relenting. “Are you afraid he’ll try to lure out the real Ripper?”

The silence at the other end says it all. “The Ripper will _kill_ him,” Jack continues, a touch of hysteria edging his tone. “He’s not going to like the fact that Gideon took credit for his work. In his mind, he’s the real hero of the story. To find out that someone else took recognition for all his hard work, well, he would find that extremely rude.”

Something stills, goes blank inside Will’s mind. For a brief second, everything around him derails out of orbit, spins anti-clockwise before righting itself again.

His heart beats inside his throat with an urgency that makes him nauseous. “I’m sorry,” he manages, voice raw like he’s been screaming for hours, “can you say that again?”

Jack voices a noise of impatience on the phone. “I said that the Ripper would kill Gideon. He would find it rude that someone else took credit for his work.” A silence, and then: “Come on Will, you know this.”

“Yes,” Will finds himself agreeing instinctively, automatically, like he’s floating on thin air, like he’s stuck in that moment before the airplane he’s on plummets towards death.  

“Will?” Jack’s voice sounds like it’s echoing across an abyss. “Are you there?”

“Yes,” he repeats after a beat, voice stronger; he’s always been good at adjusting in split-second time anyway. “I _know_ this.”

*

He’s still sitting in the same position when the phone rings again. It’s been at least a couple of hours since the last call, Jack’s call, he notices.

“Hey, Will,” Beverly’s voice comes over the phone. “Did Jack tell you?”

Will rubs a hand over his face, almost surprised that it comes back dry. “He did,” he confirms.

Beverly’s voice is a faux-rhythm of _upbeat_ that aches in his chest. “We’re going out for a drink,” she informs him. “You know, to take our minds off this for a little while. Maybe to get some fresh perspective. Jack will like it if you come.”

He smiles, almost. Imagines Beverly signing off on her reports, leaning on her shoulder to balance the phone as she tries to find the right angle of her pen on paper. “Only Jack?” he teases the best he can.

She doesn’t reply, but he almost feels the rush of her breath clouding the screen on her side. It sounds like a laugh.

“Do you know how it feels like to kill someone?” he asks after a beat, listens carefully to the sounds surrounding their conversation. It feels somehow important that he gets through this.

The line remains quiet but he’s too good, he can pick up the harshness in her breaths.

“I do,” he tells her like she’s ever needed telling. “I remember how good it felt when I shot someone who deserved it, it felt like I’ve finally done something right.” His words catch in his throat and feel weak, he’s never really spoken to someone about any of it.

“Will,” she starts and trails off but he can read in her one word everything she won’t say: _are you alright, i’m worried about you, please take care of yourself._

Will almost smiles. He leans back in his chair, something akin to absolution unfurling from his chest and he feels like he’s setting it free. “Bev,” he breathes over the phone and hopes she understands too. He likes to think that she does.

There’s a beat of silence, and then another, and then another. He almost can’t bear it, feels the oppression growing through their connection until:

“So, drinks?” she asks. The cheer in her voice is hollow and half-hearted, and another time, he thinks he might have loved her for it all over again. “I’m paying,” she offers.

Will takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. For a brief second, he doesn’t want to open his eyes again, wants to fixate in this moment for eternity.

“I can’t,” he finally says. “I have plans for dinner.”

He doesn’t disconnect the call, not quite, simply lets the phone fall from his hand.

*

There are twenty-seven contact numbers stored on his phone between ‘C’ and ‘L’. Logically, he knows it would take him about six seconds longer to scroll down to ‘L’ and press the call button. Logically, he knows it would be easier, much easier to talk to Jack, tell him what he _feels_ and let him take over.

But.

But he has never been the person presenting details, profiles without evidence. _The evidence is always there_ , he remembers saying over and over again with a conviction in his voice that seeps out, radiates, even when he makes jumps from seemingly invisible strings of logic.

And that, Will realizes, has always been the real reason he’s been afraid to go back: the loss of his symmetry, the loss of the integrity outlining his every single action. Perhaps, just perhaps, he could deal with crippling fear and spiraling downward towards insanity, after all, if he’s able to show the world, show himself the symmetry behind it all.

There are too many blank pages in his book, words strung along in a manner that’s sloppy at best, pages bunched together and folded at the corner and _torn,_ destroyed. He has the memories still, the memories of waking up and not realizing where he is, of trying to go to sleep despite the chaos raging within him, of listening to the spine of an old classic crack the slightest bit under his fingers. He has other memories too, other pages where lines are set and words are double-spaced and paragraphs are indented, memories of walking into this store for the first time and breathing in the air and thinking: this. _this._

He scrolls down on the contact list on his phone, scrolls past C and D and E; so on and so on and then. Because no matter how badly written some books are, no matter how brittle the pages and how contaminated the arches and the  backbones, he has always been the kind of person who would want to turn the page nonetheless, turn and look forward and find out what happens _next._

He reaches ‘Lecter’ on his phone and presses the call button. Waits. Grips his phone a little tighter.

“Dr. Lecter,” he says when the phone is picked up, doesn’t bother introducing himself because it won’t _matter_ soon enough, _“_ I think I’m ready to have that dinner after all.”

*

**Author's Note:**

> oh this fandom, you guys! i started outlining this AU almost a month back but other fic ideas/rl got in the way and i never quite found the way to put it all together until now. it's finally finished, so yay!  
> also, apologies for the relatively rambling run-on sentences, because i've decided that will's thoughts must be a little convoluted and running into each other.


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